


get all the sighs and the moans just right

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Daryl is a loud motherfucker when it comes to sex, Fingerfucking, Loud Sex, M/M, Moaning, Rick loves it, Rickyl Writers' Group, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's a complete loudmouth when it comes to sex, and everybody hates it except for Rick.</p>
<p>[A very late birthday present for the lovely Sorran based on the prompt: "<b>sexually confident Daryl is a screamer, and he doesn't give two shits who hears him</b>."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	get all the sighs and the moans just right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sorran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorran/gifts).



> Happy very belated birthday to the wonderful Sorran! I'm so sorry this is ridiculously late, but I hope you like it! <3

It starts as it often tends to: a small, sharp gasp. The most miniscule intake of air when Rick’s fingers, reaching and seeking, find what they’re searching for. Daryl goes still for the briefest of moments, face first up against the wall, body tensing, hips rocking forward, cock hard and untouched and straining. There’s a hum building slow and low in his throat, and it crescendos, just for a second, into a moan before ending in a soft purr of a growl, a hint of an echo bouncing in the space of the hallway.  
  
They’re well away from the others, of course, but short of an ancient church sanctuary, Rick’s never heard better acoustics. And, if frequent dirty looks and complaints are anything to go by, neither have the others. He presses against Daryl’s side, kisses along his neck, and murmurs in his ear, “Shhh. Don’t wanna wake ‘em all, do you?” 

It’s a game they play, one in which Daryl always wins, Rick comes second (pun absolutely intended), and the losers are a disgusted teenaged son and a rotating shift of glares always followed by the same question: _Can’t you shut him up?_ _  
_

Of course, Rick has tried. The first time was unexpected: a wave of grief and insanity having subsided, if only for the time being, Daryl had found a certain way of comforting Rick that, to his own surprise, had given him a new reason for survival. One that wasn’t Carl’s confused eyes staring his way under a mop of dark hair or a crying baby with an ever-changing face that he’s feared may start to show signs of genetics that are distinctly not his own. It had become so obvious then, and even in retrospect, that this was the way it was always meant to be, from the moment Rick had met those stormy blue eyes across a dead deer and a writhing walker. And Daryl had more than expressed his agreement, mouth wide open and calling Rick’s name into the echo chamber of the showers, interspersed with moan after moan after moan, so many that Rick had wondered if Daryl had lost all sense of who he was.

It’s an interesting way of loosening his hunter’s tongue, Rick has found. Daryl is a man of few words, preferring a simple, lingering look shot Rick’s way that can communicate a wealth of information far more easily than verbosity. But get Rick’s mouth or hands on him, get Rick’s cock buried deep inside him, and suddenly, those lips have a lot more to say. And try as he might have (though he didn’t try for long, and frankly, he’s never been happier to give up on anything in his life), success was just not achievable. This is where Daryl comes alive, with him, and shows a certain kind of confidence in himself and his place at Rick’s side that Rick doesn’t often see away from these stolen moments together.

Today is no different. One arm wrapped tight around him, Rick’s fingers work their way deeper and deeper and Daryl gets louder every minute. Rick nips at his earlobe, sucks for a brief moment before he grins and says, “I love the sounds you make.” He strokes insistently at Daryl’s prostate while Daryl’s legs shake and Rick holds onto him, keeps him standing upright.

“Keep doin’ that and I’ll fuckin’ sing for you,” Daryl says shakily, a little burst of laughter finding its way off his tongue between two moans. His teeth dig into his bottom lip and he grunts, hips shuddering with the way he both tries to roll them forward into empty air, and angle them back so he can try to ride Rick’s hand. His own fingers curl against the wall as if he’ll find something there to hold onto, but he’s left without any purchase, fingernails scrabbling against stone.

Rick never imagined Daryl would be like this. Oh, he imagined _this_ now and again, before it ever started, guiltily palming himself under a blanket after everyone was asleep, or off somewhere in the woods when he claimed he was going for a piss. But that was something different, a temptation he couldn’t then yield to, a secret he held tight to, like coming with Daryl’s name just behind the silent press of his lips could be read on his face by anyone. He never conceived of a Daryl who fucked like a porn star and moaned like one, too, for anyone to hear, not a care in the goddamn world. Rick admires him for it; in a way, it is a statement to the effect of _why should I be ashamed when there are bigger things to worry about_? 

“Gonna make you come just like this. You want me to do that?” Rick murmurs.

“Yes, fuck yes,” Daryl whines, “ _please_.” 

And that’s another thing about this Daryl, the one who makes sounds like nothing Rick has ever heard – he’s _needy_. The Daryl that Rick sees every other minute of the day doesn’t need a damn thing from anyone that he couldn’t already have gotten with a well-placed crossbow bolt and a bit of ingenuity. But in these moments, when Rick’s got him up against a wall and it’s his fingers or his cock or a sex toy hastily stolen from some tawdry little store somewhere along the road… well, it’s the only time Rick’s ever known Daryl to not just ask for more, but plead for it. 

Rick, of course, is happy to oblige. He sucks at Daryl’s neck, rocks his own hips against the side of Daryl’s thigh for enough friction to satisfy him for the moment, and fucks Daryl with two fingers and his own cock aching to do him one better. But they don’t have time for that, not right now, so his hand it is, and he appreciates the way Daryl moans like it’s enough. And maybe it is, for the time being, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Daryl will seek him out later, sideline whatever it is he’s doing then, and demand his attention by way of a quickie in some dark, hidden corner of the prison. The thought makes him harder, makes his jeans feel too damn tight.

He’d stand here all day if he could, fingers inside of Daryl, bringing him to the edge and pulling him back over and over, but they don’t have time for that either. If Daryl’s moans haven’t woken them all by now, then they’ll do it on their own soon enough, and while Daryl’s surely not ashamed of his loud mouth, Rick thinks he might feel differently at being caught with his pants down, Rick fingerfucking him into oblivion. Come to think of it, Rick would object, too. It’s not that he has some kind of claim over Daryl, but there’s a jealous little monster in his chest waiting to attack anyone who so much as glances at Daryl in a way that would suggest he appeals to them. How he couldn’t, Rick doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want this for anyone else. He wants this to be his and Daryl’s alone. He is selfish that way, he knows, but the rest of them already get to hear what he sounds like and that’s enough. He wants to be the only one that _makes_ Daryl sound like that.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this out here,” Daryl gasps, leaning forward against the wall a little more, pushing back onto Rick’s fingers again and again.

Rick laughs, teeth nipping at his jaw, his earlobe. “No, but _someone_ couldn’t wait ‘til we got to the tower, could they?” 

“Shuddup,” Daryl mutters, and Rick pulls his fingers halfway out, earning a _whine_ of disappointment that Rick catalogues in his mind for use in some future hurried jerk-off fantasy, or as some kind of blackmail next time Daryl claims innocence with regard to the plaintive, piteous sounds he sometimes makes. 

“What was that?” Rick asks. “Didn’t catch it.” And he shoves his fingers back in, _hard_ , makes Daryl moan so loud that it almost makes Rick’s eardrums ache. 

“M’gonna kill you,” Daryl gasps, and his voice sounds almost slurred, like he’s drunk on this, the pleasurable intoxication of Rick touching places inside of him that make Rick wonder if Daryl’s ever been touched like this before him. Not that he’d be jealous about _that_ , of course; the way Daryl is groaning says enough about the merits of what Rick is doing that there’s no sense of competition with any of Daryl’s past lovers. 

“You’d miss my ass too much.” There’s an emphatic _unh_ sound on Daryl’s lips now, and that sounds enough like agreement that Rick carries on. “Couldn’t live without it now, could you? ‘Cause I know you love the way I ride you. Know you love putting me up against a tree and fucking me stupid.” 

“ _Fuck_!” It comes out as a harsh shout and Rick gives him everything he’s got, stops going slow and even and gets unyielding, unrelenting, hard and rough and fast and deep as he can go. 

“Gonna do that later?” Rick asks him in hushed tones, finally reaching around to jerk Daryl off, completely off time with the thrust of his hand, making his hips jerk in his confusion over which way he wants to move them. “Gonna fuck me, Daryl? Know I don’t moan as loud as you but we’ll give ‘em something to talk about.”

There’s a half moment where Daryl’s breath catches in his throat and he goes silent, and Rick leans into him, whispers, “C’mon, baby, come for me.”

And he does, all over Rick’s hand, all over the wall, his legs trembling and a sinful enough moan bursting forth from his mouth that it damn near makes Rick come in his pants. But he doesn’t; he holds out while Daryl lets go, and when he pulls his fingers free of Daryl, lets him catch his breath, leaning up against the wall, he regrets that they don’t have more time. That he has to disappear somewhere and either take care of this one on his own or cool down and force himself to wait for later.

Because there will be a later. Daryl’s already looking at him with a promise in his eyes and a lazy, wicked smile that guarantees the two of them coming together and Rick coming apart with Daryl’s dick buried inside him. Daryl’s hands are still shaking when he tugs his pants up, buttons and zips them and at almost the same moment, becomes his quiet self again. He brushes up against Rick as he walks past, brushes his lips across Rick’s cheek and his hand over the bulge in his jeans.

“See you in a while,” he says, so quietly that Rick barely hears him, and slips off down a corridor.

But he does hear the frustrated, murderous shout of someone else – a loud, distant _UGHHHH_ sound and the words, “Fucking _finally_!” at top volume. It’s Glenn, and he goes on ranting about how Rick and Daryl are going to be walker bait if they don’t shut the hell up. Rick, amused, heads outside to the guard tower, alone again, and thinking that, as always, there are bigger things to worry about than Daryl’s big mouth. But damn it if they won’t do it all over again tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Fall Out Boy's song "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More 'Touch Me'."


End file.
